I shouldn’t have left. I cannot get Floris damn Middleton out of my mind. I needed a distraction.
The Red Velvet Room was already prepared when I walked in—lights low, jazz humming through the hidden speakers, restraints laid out like offerings on silk. I’d requested someone from the list. Yes, I have a list of disposable girls. The quick fuck type of girls. Someone eager. Someone forgettable.
She arrived five minutes later, breathless and obedient, dressed exactly as instructed—nothing but a black satin robe, heels, and red lipstick trying too hard to look sinful.
“On the bed,” I said, already unfastening the cuffs from the wall.
She moved quickly. Good. Quick meant trained. Quick meant she’d practiced submission like a performance.
But I wasn’t interested in performance.
The robe slipped from her shoulders. She wasn’t nervous. Not really. She was too used to this. To being looked at like a fantasy instead of a tool. But I wasn’t fantasizing.
I was hunting for silence—chasing distraction the only way I knew how.
“Lie down. Arms up.”
She obeyed, wrists open, gaze wide and needy like she thought that would earn her tenderness. It didn’t. I bound her carefully—leather cuffs, soft-lined, precise. She moaned at the first pull of restraint.
Too loud. Too rehearsed.
My hand landed across her thigh—sharp, impersonal. She gasped again, eyes fluttering like a fucking cartoon.
“Be quiet,” I snapped. “You’re not here to be cute.”
She stilled, nodding fast, legs parting in anticipation. But I wasn’t there yet.
I stripped slowly, methodically, letting her watch. Letting the room fill with the sound of my belt sliding free. The second she saw the bulge in my pants, she arched like she wanted to earn it.
Wanted to be good. Wanted to be chosen.
But she wasn’t. She wasn’t Floris.
And no matter how many times I reminded myself of that, the wrong image kept invading my mind—red lips, defiant eyes, the way her voice cracked when she tried not to feel.
This girl—Ana? Ava? It didn’t matter—she didn’t crack. She melted. Bent like melted wax. Too easy.
I pressed my fingers between her legs, felt the wet heat of her cunt clench around nothing. She was soaked. Desperate. Responsive.
And I felt nothing.
She moaned again, louder this time, grinding against my hand like she thought the friction would make me want her.
It didn’t.
“Did I say you could move?”
“N-no, sir. I’m sorry.”
I leaned in, lips at her ear. “Then don’t. Not unless you want to be gagged.”
Her breath hitched. She nodded. She liked that idea. Too much.
I dropped to my knees, spread her open, tongue dragging once—flat and slow—over her clit. She cried out like she’d been starved for it. I added a finger. Then two. Curling. Testing.
She came in under a minute.
Too fast. Too eager.
Her whole body writhed. She was still gasping when I stood, wiped my fingers on her stomach, and grabbed her jaw hard enough to make her wince.
“You call that control?” I said, voice low, unimpressed.
“I-I’m sorry—”
“No. You’re not. You’re just easy.”
Her face crumpled like I’d slapped her. I didn’t care. I wasn’t here to make her feel good. I was here to forget.
I flipped her over—face down, ass up, cuffs biting into the padding. I grabbed the flogger off the hook and traced it down her spine. Her breath hitched again, but it didn’t excite me. Her skin didn’t tense the right way. She wasn’t afraid. She was performing fear.
One strike. Two. She whimpered, the sounds too pretty, too polished.
“Count,” I ordered.
“Y-Yes, sir. One.”
Another. “Two.”
Another. “Three.”
But even the rhythm didn’t help. My cock was hard, yes, but not for her. Not for this. Not for now. It pulsed with frustration. With need. With memory. With her.
I tossed the flogger aside, unbuckled my pants and slammed into the girl from behind without warning, no buildup, no patience.
She gasped. “Oh fuck— Thank you, sir—”
I wrapped my hand around her throat and drove deeper. She was tight. Hot. Velvet and slick. But still wrong.
Still not enough.
I closed my eyes and there she was. Floris.
That mouth. That glare. That fuck-you-I’ll-bite-you-first kind of fire that turned me ravenous. That body I hadn’t ruined yet. That mind is still fighting me.
This girl wasn’t fighting.
This girl was moaning into the pillow like she thought if she said the right words, I’d fuck her soul out.
But Floris would never beg like that. She would never give in unless I took it.
I stopped. Just stopped. The girl whimpered under me, clenching like she could keep me in.
“Did I tell you to come?” I asked, breath flat.
“No, sir,” she whispered, ashamed.
“Then why the fuck are you shaking?”
She broke down then. Voice trembling. “I just— I wanted to please you—”
“You didn’t.”
I pulled out. Didn’t finish. Didn’t want to.
My cock throbbed, but the high was gone. Evaporated.
I stood, wiped my hands on a towel, and walked out without looking at her again. Left her tied. Panting. Wrecked for nothing.
The hallway outside felt colder than it should’ve.
I didn’t bother dressing fully. Just pulled my pants back on, left the belt unbuckled, and walked back to the monitors.
Sia had proposed an all female only dinner tonight. She does this with every assistant I’ve had.
Floris was still at dinner. Still talking to Sia. Still haunting me. And I hadn’t even touched her that night.
Not once.
But fuck, I’d never felt so owned.